Once Around the Track (9 page)

When someone pointed a camera at him, he obligingly went on point, smiling happily for the camera as he posed with his new best friends, the total strangers on either side of him. To his credit, the party guests seemed delighted with him. He played the part of a gregarious celebrity very well. Suzie wondered how he really felt about it; surely such poise had not come naturally to a backwoods boy from Georgia. She resolved to ask him if she ever got another chance to speak to him in private.

Dutifully, she hovered at Badger’s elbow, ready to bring him a drink, supply a name, hand him a Sharpie, or to make herself otherwise useful to the guest of honor. Thus, she was probably the only person who noticed that his responses were not only perfunctory, but identical. He said almost the same thing to every single person. Of course, in fairness, almost every person said the same thing to him, so perhaps there were only so many variations that one could make on “Thank you. How kind of you to say so.” Anyhow, he was such a handsome, unassuming guy that it didn’t much matter what he said. Just the smile would have been enough for most people.

Badger had also perfected the art of scribbling his name on whatever was handed to him without seeming to notice that he was being asked for an autograph. He’d simply scrawl his name, hardly glancing at the paper, while he kept on talking to the women crowded around him. You didn’t even have to
ask
him to sign his name. Any photo of himself, any die-cast model of a car he’d ever driven, or any other racing-related item that a Sharpie would write on—hat, tee shirt, coffee mug—he would sign if the item were thrust at him, never interrupting the flow of his conversation.

It took the embarrassment out of the situation, Suzie decided. The fan was not required to formally request “the great man’s” autograph, and Badger was spared the awkwardness of being fussed over or seeming to demand deference. He seemed no more arrogant than a ticket taker, accepting pieces of paper, “processing” them, and then handing them back without ceremony. It was a graceful maneuver, she decided, and she wondered if all the drivers were similarly skilled in celebrity.

Badger also had his sound bites down pat: a modest, cheerful, patient litany of platitudes. He was honored to be a part of the team; he couldn’t say how well they’d do in the season, but he would certainly try his best; and no he didn’t think he was the most skillful driver
ever,
but it was mighty kind of the lady to say so.

He’s good,
thought Suzie. He could be in politics. Then she remembered that senators outnumbered Cup drivers, and she decided that one didn’t keep a Cup ride without the consummate skills of a politician.

In a momentary lull of adulation, Deanna, the secretary, touched his elbow and pointed to the stack of Badger likenesses in a letter tray on the table. “We thought people might like to have signed photos of you,” she said. “I know I would. If you wouldn’t mind?”

“I’d be honored,” said Badger, taking the proffered Sharpie from Suzie and reaching for a photo from the top of the pile. He winced. “Oh,
this one
. You know, I never was too partial to that picture of me.”

Deanna sighed. “I think you look wonderful in that shot. That solemn, dedicated look on your upturned face, and the way the light hits you. Like an angel in a stained glass window.” She willed herself to stop babbling.

“Yeah,” said Badger, as if he hadn’t heard a word she said. “I remember when they took that shot. We had just finished a three-hour race. I came in second, and they just swooped down on me with the microphones and the camera and all, and, Lord, I had to piss so bad I thought it would come out my ears…. Who do you want me to make this out to, sweetie?”

Deanna summoned a wan smile, “Oh…just sign it,” she murmured. There was always eBay.

Christine Berenson and several of the more important party guests waited until the frenzy had subsided somewhat before they attempted to converse with the star of their team. “Such a joy to see you,” said Christine, pressing her cheek against Badger’s. Since they were the same height, this was not difficult. She nodded affably to Suzie. “I think you know everyone,” she said to the lawyer, but she recited the names of the gaggle of socialites in her wake and beamed while each of them hugged Badger, some with considerably more determination than others. Suzie thought she detected a slight reduction in the voltage of his enthusiasm. His smile seemed a bit more perfunctory, and he had begun to look restive. Perhaps he was an introvert, after all. He did spend a lot of time alone fishing on that lake back home. Being effusive to a room full of strangers must have been quite a drain on his reserves of cordiality.

Christine had drawn Badger aside for a private talk. “How do you like the decorations for the reception?” she asked.

“Real nice,” said Badger without a glance at any of them.

“There’s one item I particularly wanted to show you. A piece of racing memorabilia that someone gave to me when I started the team. What do you think?” A metal chair against the wall held a cheaply framed two-by-three foot poster labeled
“The Winston-Charlotte Motor Speedway–May 17, 1987.”
It was a group photo of NASCAR drivers in firesuits, with Neil Bonnett, Terry Labonte, Dale Earnhardt, Bill Elliott, and Richard Petty kneeling in the foreground, and fifteen equally illustrious drivers standing in two rows behind them.

Badger said, “That’s a dirty poster.”

“What? It seems in mint condition to me.”

“They did a clean version of this poster, after they caught it, but this is the original one. Look.” He put his finger on Neil Bonnett’s right ear.

When Christine knelt down and peered closely at that part of the photograph, she realized that directly behind Neil Bonnett’s ear—but not entirely obscured by it—was the erect penis of Tim Richmond, dangling out of his white and red firesuit, while he stared into the camera with careless bravado.

“Tim Richmond was pretty wild,” said Badger. “Great driver. Died of AIDS. That was before I got into the sport, of course.”

If he had expected her to be horrified by revelations about her X-rated poster, he had underestimated the corporate she-wolf.

Looking distinctly unshocked, Christine gave him a long, appraising stare below the belt, leaned close to his ear, and whispered, “Tell me, Badger, how do you think you measure up to Tim Richmond?”

Now he was shaking hands with one of the few men present at the reception, the silver-haired husband of a regal older woman whose silvery dress matched her hair. The couple had been persuaded by Christine to make their furniture company a minor sponsor of the car despite their own genteel misgivings about the sport of stock car racing. Now that the object of their dubious investment had materialized, the elderly gentleman took the opportunity to question Badger as if he were a customer service representative instead of a famous Cup driver. “It certainly costs a lot of money to put that palm-sized decal on your car, young man.”

His wife nodded emphatically. “It certainly does. Daylight robbery.”

Badger hesitated for a moment, perhaps wondering if the couple were joking, but apparently he decided they weren’t. Summoning his “aw-shucks country boy” look, he said in his most mellifluous drawl, “Well, ma’am and sir, if it was up to me, I’d be happy to slap that decal on there for you for nothing, but you know I don’t really have anything to do with it. The owners set the prices for sponsorship, and I reckon they spend most of that money seeing that I don’t run out of tires or have to use secondhand parts. Since I’ve been in the hospital a time or two from going into the wall from a tire blowout or wreck due to a faulty part, I guess my life pretty much depends on a well-funded car. So I sure do appreciate your help in keeping me safe.”

The man sniffed. “Our decal is on the side of the car. The only time it shows up on television is if they show a close-up of your car, and the only time they do that is if you are in the top five.”

His wife gave his arm a playful smack. “Oh, stop it, Lewis!” she said. “This poor boy’s life is at stake. If you want a bigger ad, then give him more money.” She enfolded Badger in a motherly hug. “And you be careful out there, honey, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Badger.

With a proprietary hand in the small of his back, Christine steered Badger away from the elderly furniture manufacturers. “Nicely done,” she whispered to Badger. “Before they leave, I’ll talk to them about increasing their sponsorship.”

“I just told them the truth,” said Badger, edging away from her.

“Well, you might want to resist the urge to do that. The man by the punch bowl is the representative of Vagenya.”

Badger blinked. “Senator Allen?”

“Not Virginia!
Va-gen-ya.
Our primary sponsor. You know, the drug for women that—oh, never mind.” She patted his arm and smiled. “Just try not to discuss it. By the way, perhaps you and I could have dinner some time to discuss the direction we want to go with this team.”

Badger nodded solemnly. “Tuggle and I would be happy to talk to you about that, ma’am.”

Christine opened her mouth to say that Tuggle’s presence would not be required, but something in his eyes made her think better of it.
So he wasn’t an innocent little redneck, after all
, she thought.
He’s like a fox cub. If
cute
will get him what he wants, he’ll use it, but if not, he can bite with the best of them.
Interesting. Motorsports was more complicated than it seemed in all sorts of unexpected ways.

Then they were within hailing distance of the pharmaceutical company representative, who hastily set down an overfull glass of wine in order to shake hands with Badger. “Charlie Conley, Badger. Pleasure to meet you.” His eager expression suggested that he had a pocketful of die-cast cars, but if so, he didn’t produce them.

“How you doin’,” said Badger, whose retriever affability always made him look glad to see anybody.

“We’re really excited about sponsoring your car this year, Badger,” said Conley. Then he winked. “No pun intended.”

“Glad to have you on board,” said Badger. “I hope we have a real good year.”

Someone had come up with a camera and motioned for Badger and Conley to pose together, which they did with equally perfunctory smiles and hardly a break in the conversation.

“Well, we’ll be cheering you on. We’re even getting a skybox at Charlotte. People at corporate will get a thrill out of meeting you.”

Badger nodded. “I’ll be there.” He managed to sound as if he had been ordered to take a machine gun nest singlehanded—bravely resigned to his fate, but determined to do his duty. It was an endearing expression, Suzie thought. You’d trust Badger with your life and not think twice about it.

Conley smiled. “You know we had another idea that you might get a kick out of, Badger. In a couple of weeks we’re going to be doing a pharmaceutical trade show to kick off Vagenya—you know, show the world our new wonder drug. And we were thinking it would be just a great attention-getter to have you there.”

Badger’s genial smile began to tighten at the corners, and he stood very still.

“We haven’t really thought it all out yet,” Conley went on. “There are half a dozen possibilities, I think. Of course, we could have you sign photos. I know you’re used to that, but we were thinking—and, you know, Badger, this is just off the top of my head here, but I was thinking…good-looking stud like you, boy…What about a kissing booth? Wouldn’t that be a hoot?” He winked and leered.

Badger’s expressionless stare did not waver. He did not move a muscle.

Happily unaware of the effect of his little suggestions, Conley went barreling on. “And we’d have a slogan, something like…oh…
If You Haven’t Got Badger, Try Vagenya.”
He turned to Suzie, as if noticing her for the first time. “What do you think?”

Suzie was spared from telling him what she thought, because at that moment, Christine Berenson, who had not been privy to the discussion, glided in, wineglass in hand. She took Badger by the arm and led him away toward another clump of guests. She waited motionless beside him until the chattering died down, and then, still clutching his arm, she announced to the group, “You know, Badger is not only a great driver, he’s also something of a humanitarian. When Suzie here visited him in his hometown, he had just rescued a large injured turtle from the local lake. A motor boat had cut its shell, and he actually saved its life.”

Her listeners responded with a suitable assortment of oohs and aahs and a few seconds of muffled applause. One large woman in flowered silk who was either an animal lover or an opportunist hugged Badger again, professing her admiration for his noble efforts.

Badger bore all this attention with a modest smile, but he wasn’t forthcoming with any information about the rescue, so that finally Christine was forced to ask, “And how is the turtle?”

Solemnly, Badger Jenkins said, “Why, ma’am, he was delicious.”

Suzie Terrell’s smile had turned into a rictus by the time she had managed to steer Badger across the threshold of the reception room and out into the hall. He was still trying to wave as she slammed the door behind them.

“Wal,” he said, “I don’t know about that Vagenya guy…”

“Shut up!” she hissed.

“No, I’m serious,” said Badger. “I try to be as accommodating as I can to the team sponsors, but I gotta tell you, that kissing booth idea of his just made my skin crawl. There ain’t no way I’m doing that. You tell them, all right? It’s not in my contract, stuff like that. Not even close.”

Suzie waved away his concerns about the Vagenya schemes. “You
ate
that turtle! You ate that poor defenseless, endangered—
What is wrong with you?”

He shrugged and began to walk off down the corridor, but she ran after him and grabbed him by the elbow. “You barbarian!” she hissed. “How could you?”